Part 8 (1/2)

'What was his name?'

'Macdonald. I brought him out some time ago.'

'I gather he isn't at Kratsen?'

'Not yet.'

'Where is he?'

'In the Soviet Zone of Berlin.'

'Doing what?'

'Broadcasting.'

'Propaganda?'

'Of course.'

Biggles' face remained expressionless. 'So at this moment Ross is on his way to Berlin to see Macdonald?'

'Yes.'

'How long will he stay there?'

'I don't know. One day perhaps. Perhaps a week. It depends. But afterwards he'll go on to Kratsen. I expect Macdonald will go with him.

He must be about finished in Berlin.'

'What's going on at Kratsen?'

'Broadcasting. There's a new radio station there. Men are made to broadcast to the United Nations Forces in Korea, saying what a good time they're having.'

Ginger could now see daylight. He felt sure that Stresser was telling the truth. He had heard of such broadcasts.

Biggles' eyes were still on Stresser. 'Suppose Ross refuses to broadcast?'

Stresser shrugged.

'One last question,' said Biggles curtly. 'Where will Ross stay in Berlin? It will be in the Soviet Zone, of course?'

'Yes. The Hotel Prinz Karl, in the Zindenplatzer. I've stayed there myself sometimes. It's one of the regular places, like this.'

Ginger was looking at Biggles. His face, now set in hard lines, seemed to have aged suddenly. That the information Stresser had given him had shocked him severely was plain.

'Did you tell Ross what was in store for him?' Biggles asked Stresser.

'No. I thought it might depress him.'

'That was considerate of you,' sneered Biggles. He tossed the roll of notes on the table. '

All right, that's all,' he said. 'My advice to you is get out of this country, and keep out.

Try to double-cross me and I'll remember it if we ever meet again.' With that he turned on his heel and left the room.

Outside, in the corridor, he turned for a moment to face Ginger.

'Manchuria, of all places, ' he breathed. 'I wasn't thinking of anything outside Europe. Poor Ross.

He'll think we've forsaken him.'

'But we haven't,' protested Ginger.

'Not on your life,' grated Biggles.

'Stresser was telling the truth?'

'I'm pretty sure of it, otherwise he needn't have mentioned Macdonald.

But come on, let'

s get out of this place for a start.'

They went on down the stairs and into the street. The proprietor did not speak to them, and they did not speak to him. But five minutes later, from the end of the road, when Ginger looked back, he saw a car pull up outside the hotel. Some policemen alighted busily and went in. 'We cut it fine. I've an idea Stresser has left it a bit late,' he told Biggles. 'If the police find that money on him, he's had it.'

'I shan't lose any sleep on that account,' rejoined Biggles caustically, and strode on.

'You know where you're going, I hope?' queried Ginger.

'I made a point of studying a map of the city before we left home,'

answered Biggles. '

You'd better not walk with me. The police will be looking for two men.

Drop behind a bit.' He walked on, keeping to the main streets, where traffic, both vehicular and pedestrian, was most congested.

Twenty minutes later, after crossing a bridge over what Ginger took to be the River Moldau, they were in what was clearly the old quarter of the city. A fine drizzle of rain was now falling again. It did nothing to brighten the aspect of rows of houses that were obviously of great age.

There were some small shops. Some of the goods offered in them looked as ancient as the houses. Ginger had no idea of where they were, but Biggles seemed to know, although more than once he looked up at street names on corner houses.

There was very little traffic now, and what few people were about hurried along under dripping umbrellas.

At last Biggles waited for Ginger to join him. 'This is the street,' he said and, going on a short distance, turned into a drab little shop which carried over the door a board with the name Johann Smasrik, in faded paint. The establishment appeared, from the things in the dingy window, to be something between a jobbing tailor's and a second-hand clothes store. A bell clanged as he opened the door, to be greeted by the warm, sickly smell of ironing.

Ginger closed the door behind them and turned to find that they were being regarded by a mild-looking little man of late middle age, who peered at them over an old pair of steel-rimmed gla.s.ses balanced on the end of his nose. There seemed to be something wrong with his figure, and as he put down the hot iron with which he had been working, and turned towards them, it could be seen that he was deformed, one shoulder being higher than the other.

Everything about him, his threadbare clothes and his surroundings, spoke of extreme poverty and a dreary existence. Wherefore Ginger's first emotion was one of pity.